The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(105)

An old brown skull sat grinning up at me from the base of the broken jar.

I tossed the sculpture aside. ‘There. You’re out.’

The ghost was gazing at me. ‘You actually did it … You did it. Even though you didn’t need to …’

‘Yes. Now, I’m a little busy …’ Lockwood had fired at Ezekiel again, but this time the glowing shape had dodged the strike, flexing its torso aside. It seemed to be recovering its power. Tentacles of blackness searched for Lockwood, who lopped them off with the tip of his sword. I couldn’t see Marissa. I made for my rapier at a run.

‘You do know what you’ve done, Lucy?’ the skull called after me. ‘There’s nothing you can do to stop me now! I’m free! I could kill you – I could kill Lockwood fast as thinking …’

‘You could!’ I didn’t look back. ‘That’s up to you!’

I paid the skull no more attention, but scooped up my sword from where it lay.

Lockwood was swinging his rapier smoothly, slicing off the probing tentacles. I chopped at a couple too. Black smoke was coming from the muzzle of the gun.

‘Battery’s almost out,’ he said. ‘I used it all up on the Butcher Boy downstairs. It would be nice to see the back of Ezekiel, Luce. Might be worth you getting the Source off Marissa, if you can.’

I nodded grimly. ‘Not a problem.’

I went in search of the woman, keeping clear of where the raging spirit thrashed and coiled. I found Marissa on her hands and knees, crawling along on the far side of the desk with her hair over her face. There must have been a drawer or some kind of secret compartment back there, because when she stood up, she had a rapier in her hand.

Marissa Fittes kicked off her high heels and stepped towards me. That lovely face didn’t look quite so good now; somehow its contours no longer quite aligned. The cheekbones seemed too high, the chin too protuberant – as if the old woman’s spirit inside was almost showing through.

I moved in her direction, disregarding the pain in my side.

‘Hey, Marissa,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a message for you. I forgot to tell you earlier. You know that old doctor of yours – the one you buried in your tomb instead of you? Neil Clarke, wasn’t it? We met his ghost the other day. He was asking after you.’ I corrected myself. ‘Actually, he was asking for you. He badly wants to be reunited with you.’

For a second the woman’s expression became as static as one of the old masks we’d once had on our walls. Her hand twitched, making the green stones jangle at her wrist. Then she recovered. ‘Oh dear, poor Neil. Is he still down there? And still angry? That is a shame.’

‘Maybe you’ll see for yourself soon enough,’ I said.

Marissa scowled. ‘You’re wounded,’ she said. ‘Look at all that blood. I think you’re dying.’

‘Like you’re an expert on that.’

‘You’re bleeding to death.’

‘Oh, hardly.’ I lifted my sword, stiffly adopted the en-garde stance, ready for battle. ‘Come on.’

The woman raised her weapon too. ‘It’s not easy, Lucy, fighting with a wounded side. The muscles twist; they wrench and tear. I know that because I was a master with the rapier. I was the first to use one against ghosts. I invented the art. It was I who subdued the Mud Lane Phantom, I who—’

‘Oh, shut up,’ I said. ‘That was fifty years ago and in another body. How long’s it been since you actually raised a sword in anger, Marissa? I suspect you’re a little rusty.’

She brushed hair from her face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘let’s find out.’

With that she darted forward; the rapier flashed down. I blocked it, twisted my blade in a Kuriashi turn – a complex series of feints and blows that came at her from either side. Gasping, she dodged and parried, kept my attack at bay.

And after that there was near silence in the penthouse; silence apart from clashing iron. On one side of the desk the glowing spirit sent forth tentacles of plasm to snare Lockwood. On the other, Marissa threw herself at me. Lockwood and I retreated; we dug in, we held our ground. Just for a few moments we were side by side, him slicing at whirling tentacles, me parrying the woman’s blows. Our reflections skipped along the fractured surface of the wall mirrors, swelling and shrinking, distorting on the jags of broken glass. There was no sound but the scuff and squeak and shuffle of our boots, the crack of glass, the tang of blades. In and out we went, twisting and spinning as if in synchronized flow. It must have been quite a spectacle.

And we were being watched. Once I caught sight of the skull’s spirit looking at us from halfway across the room.

A while ago Lockwood had scarcely been able to walk, but you wouldn’t have guessed that from his airy steps, the way he swung out of reach of the swiftest spectral blows. He moved with the utmost grace, with the same economy of effort as when practising with Floating Joe and Esmeralda at home. I didn’t have his fluency – I never had – but I matched the dark-haired woman blow for blow, and soon saw her expression begin to change. Confidence fell away, to be replaced by creeping doubt.

‘Ezekiel,’ she cried suddenly, ‘help me!’

Lockwood’s original shots had wounded the glowing shape, preventing it from unleashing its full strength. But the trouble with powerful ghosts – and Ezekiel was powerful, whatever manner of dark spirit it actually might have been – is that when they’re inconvenienced, it’s seldom for very long. And now, as if galvanized by Marissa’s cry, it withdrew its tentacles into itself, mustered its energies and raised its shining arms.